Lead Me to the Storm
by ariel2me
Summary: He was the grandson of one king, nephew of another, cousin to yet another king, and finally, father to the first Baratheon to sit the Iron Throne. Steffon Baratheon lived through the reigns of three kings, but he did not live to see his son depose his childhood companion from the throne. Steffon Baratheon, beginning to end.
1. Chapter 1

His mother was a princess. Steffon knew this long before he knew what being a princess truly meant.

(A princess must wed for the good of the realm, not for the sake of her own wishes or desires, he understood later. A princess must pay for her brother's folly, must serve as coins to repay her father's debt of honor. A princess must leave her home, her family and everything she knew when she was a young girl still, to serve as a cupbearer to a lord who had lost all faith in the promise of _any_ Targaryen, even a king, a lord who demanded that the princess betrothed to his heir must live under his roof and serve under his watchful gaze until she was old enough to marry.)

His mother knew Storm's End almost as well as his father did. Every nook, every cranny, every corner and every turn.

"Have you always lived here, Mother?"

"I have lived here since I was eight."

"But why didn't you live in the palace, with the king and the queen and the other princes and princesses?"

"I did, when I was younger."

"And then?"

"And then I came to live here, in Storm's End."

"With Father?"

"Your father already lived here. He was born here, in this very room. And you were born in this room too. And someday, your children will be born in this room, and your children's children."

"And my children's children's children."

"And your children's children's children's children."

"And my –"

(Little did they know that only two generations later, the Baratheon line would live or die on the strength of _one_ little girl, a girl who was not even born in Storm's End but was born amidst the salt and smoke of Dragonstone instead, a girl who upon her father's death will be the last of the Baratheons.)

* * *

><p>His father was a lord, not a prince.<p>

"You are a lord, but Mother is a princess. So am I a lord, or am I a prince?" Little Steffon had asked his father.

"Neither. You are Steffon, and later when you have earned your spurs you will be knighted and become Ser Steffon, and later still, you will be Lord Baratheon."

"But _you_ are Lord Baratheon, Father. We can't _both_ be Lord Baratheon. Mother said I cannot name both of Florrie's kittens Steff, only one of them."

"What name did you choose for the other kitten?"

"Stanny. He's the bigger and cuddlier one."

(His father died when Steffon was still a squire, before he had earned his spurs. Gerold Hightower, the man who replaced Steffon's father as commander of the Westerosi force fighting against the Ninepenny Kings in the Stepstones, was the one who knighted Steffon at the conclusion of that war. Steffon was Lord Baratheon before he ever became Ser Steffon. His father had been wrong after all.

But then again, how was Ormund Baratheon to know that he was going to die when his son was only four-and-ten? How was he to know that he would not live to see his son become a father? How was he to know that his son, in turn, would not live to see _his_ own sons become fathers? Or perhaps Ormund should have known. After all, Ormund's own father had not lived to see him become a father.)

* * *

><p>Maester Cressen was as grave and as solemn as a man of sixty, but he was not even thirty. Steffon was the only one who could make the maester laugh. Well, <em>sometimes<em> he could, but only when they were alone, only when no one else was around.

"Why did the storm cross the sea, Maester?"

"Because the sea is in the storm's natural path. Take Shipbreaker Bay, for example –"

"No! Because it wants to get to the other side."

It took a while for the jape to sink in, but Cressen _did_ laugh, finally.

("We have found the most splendid fool. Robert will be delighted with him, and perhaps in time he will even teach Stannis how to laugh," Steffon wrote to Maester Cressen, two weeks before the storm raging across Shipbreaker Bay sank his ship and drowned him and his lady wife. "And perhaps the fool will even make _you_ laugh, Maester, as I used to," he added, in a postscript.)

* * *

><p>Uncle Harbert could make Steffon's father laugh. He could also make Ormund weep, when he spoke of their dead sister.<p>

_Argella_. Argella of the Stormlands with crushed, dead flowers in her hands, when she heard the news that she had been spurned, that the prince she was betrothed to had wed a wild witch girl, Jenny of Oldstones with flowers in her hair.

Argella had raged, Ormund had counseled patience, and Harbert was a boy too young still to understand the enormity of the situation. Their father swiftly renounced his allegiance to the Iron Throne and proclaimed himself the Storm King. The Baratheons carried the blood of the Durrandons, the blood of the Storm Kings of old through Argella Durrandon, lady wife of Orys Baratheon, Lyonel Baratheon declared. And now _his_ Argella was humiliated and dishonored, the honor of his House was besmirched, and the Laughing Storm was not about to let that insult by the Targaryens stand.

("How did she really die, my aunt Argella?" Steffon would ask, later, when he was old enough to understand the whole wretched saga of broken betrothal and failed rebellion.

"She died of a broken heart," his father replied.

"She was thrown off her horse while hunting wild boars," his mother said.

"She should not have died at all," Uncle Harbert said.)

* * *

><p>Steffon was taken to court for the first time when he was three months old, to be presented to his royal grandfather and grandmother.<p>

"Was I put in a basket, like a gift to the king and queen?"

Ormund laughed. "No, you were in your mother's arms."

"And where were you, Father?"

"I was standing beside your mother."

"And then what happened?"

"Your grandmother kissed your forehead, tousled your hair and said, _"His hair will grow to be as black as mine, I see. Shall we call him Black Steffon?"_"

"Is _that_ where I got my black hair? From Grandmother?"

Ormund smiled. "All Baratheons have black hair."

"So I got it from you? But why is Grandmother's hair black and not silver, like Mother and Grandfather, if she is also a Targaryen?"

"She married a Targaryen, but she is a Blackwood by birth."

"And what did Grandfather say, when he saw me?"

"He held you in his arms, kissed both your cheeks and your brows, and then he raised you up and announced, "_This child is the bond that will once again reunite the Targaryens and the Baratheons in close friendship and amity."_"

"I thought _we_ already did that, when we were wed. I thought our marriage was already sufficient to serve that purpose," Steffon's mother interjected. "But my father saw things differently, it seemed."

"Your father only meant it in the best possible way, I am sure," Steffon's father said.

"You think too highly of my father."

"You have cause to resent your father and your brother, I know, as you have ample cause to resent _my_ father. But your father is my king, and I am a man whose own father once rose in a failed rebellion against that king. My loyalty must be seen to be absolute and unwavering, for all our sakes. There is no other choice, Rhaelle."

* * *

><p>Steffon's second visit to King's Landing - the one he would actually remember in later years – was supposed to take place shortly after his fifth nameday. His mother began preparing him for that visit long beforehand.<p>

"You have three uncles, an aunt, and two cousins. Do you remember their names?"

Steffon nodded. "Aunt Shaera, that is your older sister. She is married to Uncle Jaehaerys, and they have two children, Cousin Aerys and Cousin Rhaella." Steffon paused, before asking, "Is Cousin Rhaella named after you, Mother?"

Looking startled, his mother replied, "I don't know. I have never asked, in truth. Possibly not, the name is not exactly the same, after all."

"Rhaelle and Rhaella. I like _your_ name better, Mother," Steffon declared.

Smiling, taking him into her embrace, his mother said, "Thank you, my sweet boy, But perhaps you should not tell Rhaella that, when you meet her. It might make her sad to hear it."

"Is she a princess too, like you?"

"Yes, she is. And Aerys is a prince."

"And their mother is a princess?"

"Of course. My sister is the daughter of a king, just like I am."

"Then why am_ I_ not a prince? _My_ mother is a princess too."

"Aerys and Rhaella are a prince and a princess because their father is a prince, not because their mother is a princess. Your father is a lord, not a prince, so you cannot be a prince."

"Then why didn't _you_ marry a prince, Mother, like your sister did?"

"Do you want to be a prince so badly? If you are a prince, then your father would not be your father. He cannot take you with him when he goes hawking, or teach you how to ride your pony, or read to you before you go to sleep, or –"

"I don't want to be a prince! I want to _keep_ Father, always."

"Your father will be very glad to know that."

"Did _you_ want to marry a prince, Mother?"

"No, never."

"Why not?"

"I loved my brothers, but I had no wish to marry any of them."

"Because you wanted to marry Father instead?" Steffon asked, bright-eyed and grinning.

There was a long pause while Rhaelle stared into the distance. "Yes," she finally said, but even a little boy knew a lie when he heard it.

* * *

><p>Later, as his father was reading to him about giants and trolls, Steffon interrupted to ask, "Why didn't Uncle Harbert just marry Aunt Argella himself?"<p>

"What?!" Astonished, Ormund set aside the book he had been reading aloud. "What do you mean?" He asked his son, gazing intently at the boy's face.

"Uncle Harbert said Aunt Argella was sad because the man she was going to marry married someone else instead. And Uncle Harbert said that he loved his sister very, very much. So why didn't _he _marry her, to make her less sad?"

"Well, he could not do that. They are brother and sister."

"Uncle Jaehaerys married Aunt Shaera, and _they _arebrother and sister too."

"It's … well, it's not the same."

"Why not?"

"Jaehaerys and Shaera are Targaryens. The Targaryens are allowed to wed brothers and sisters."

"But no one else is allowed?"

Ormund nodded.

Frowning, Steffon said, "But you said … you said that the rules must apply equally, the same way, to _everyone_. You told me that when you struck my hands for taking the peaches from the kitchen without the cook's permission. I remember that, Father. You said if the butcher's son is to be punished, then the lord's son must be punished too, equally, for the same offense."

"And that is still true," Ormund insisted. "But there are certain circumstances ... there are times when … well … there are …" Ormund sighed, heavily. His hands cupping his son's face, he said, "The world is not always the way we wish it to be, Steffon. The way we know it _should _be. Do you understand?"

Steffon shook his head.

"You will, one day. I promise," Ormund said, but unlike other promises he had made to his little boy in the past, his voice sounded unaccountably sad and mournful.

Trying to make his father less sad, Steffon smiled brightly and said, "I'm glad Mother did not have to marry one of her brothers, that she got to marry _you_ instead."

That did not bring a smile to his father's face, as Steffon was hoping. "I don't want anyone else to be my father," Steffon continued.

This time, his father _did_ smile.

"Not even if it would make you a prince?" Ormund asked.

Steffon shook his head, vigorously.

"Or a king?"

"Not even for _that_," Steffon replied. A thought struck him. "Will Cousin Aerys be king?" He asked.

"He will, one day, but that is still far, far in the future."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

There is no confirmation in canon that the great-uncle Harbert who was the castellan of Storm's End that Stannis mentioned in A Clash of Kings was actually a Baratheon. (He could have been an Estermont, for example. Stannis made his wife's uncle Axell Florent the castellan of Dragonstone; it's not inconceivable that Steffon could have appointed Cassana's uncle to be castellan of Storm's End.) But for the purpose of this fic, let's assume that Stannis' great-uncle Harbert was the younger brother of Ormund Baratheon.

Likewise, there is no indication in canon when Maester Cressen actually started serving as a maester at Storm's End. Cressen is said to be "not far from his eightieth nameday" in A Clash of Kings, and Steffon was born in 246 AC, which would make Cressen in his twenties when Steffon was born. Judging from the example of Maester Pylos who was "no more than five-and-twenty" when he started serving as a maester in Dragonstone, it's not impossible that Cressen would have already been around in Storm's End during Steffon's childhood. I like the continuity of Cressen being there from the beginning, so that's what I'm going with in this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

His mother had several different smiles. There was one reserved only for Steffon, only for her little boy, the one Steffon guarded jealously, always on the lookout that she was not being so free and so easy bestowing that smile to anyone and everyone.

There was another smile of his mother that Steffon did not like, that scared him, almost. This one had her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was smiling to stop herself from saying rude words, the kind of words she would be scolding Steffon for ever saying.

His mother was smiling that smile now as another one of her siblings approached her. She had laughed and laughed when Uncle Daeron attempted to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. She was smiling, and then crying, and then laughing, when Aunt Shaera embraced her. And she had smiled that special smile that was supposed to be only for Steffon when they visited Uncle Jaehaerys in his bedchamber. Uncle Jaehaerys had looked so ill and so miserable that Steffon did not mind his mother parting with her special smile for someone else, just this _one_ time.

"That is your uncle Duncan," his mother said to Steffon, her eyes fixed on the man who was fast approaching them, her voice low, her mouth still smiling that smile Steffon did not care for.

Tugging at his mother's dress, Steffon whispered, "Is he a bad man?"

Frowning, his mother hissed, "Of course not. Why would you think that?" But Uncle Duncan had already reached them, and Steffon did not have the chance to reply.

He did not _seem_ like a bad man, this uncle who knelt down on one knee and put his hand on top of Steffon's head.

"Do you know who I am, young man?"

Steffon glanced at his mother, who gave him a slight nod. "You are my uncle, Prince Duncan," he replied.

Uncle Duncan said nothing at first, his eyes never leaving Steffon's face. "You look so much like your father did, when he was a boy. I thought time had somehow been rolled back, years and years."

"Did you know my father when he was a boy?"

"Yes, I did. He was a royal page, your father, serving in this very castle. He was older than you are now, of course, when he came here. Seven, if I recall," Uncle Duncan replied.

"Eight," Mother interjected. "Ormund was eight when he came to King's Landing, the same age I was when I was sent to Storm's End."

Wide-eyed with curiosity, Steffon asked, "So you went to Storm's End, and then Father went to King's Landing, all at the same time?" So strange, these switching of houses. Why couldn't they each stay in their own house, with their own family?

"No, not at the same time," his mother replied. "Your father is older than I am, you know that. When he came to King's Landing, I was only two."

"It was right after your grandfather's coronation. That was when your father came to King's Landing," Uncle Duncan said.

"And then he went home to Storm's End when you went there, Mother? Did you go together?"

There was a long silence punctuated with awkward glances between Steffon's mother and his uncle. His mother was the one who finally spoke. "No, your father went back to Storm's End a short while before that, because his father, your grandfather Lord Lyonel, needed him."

"He was my squire at the time," Uncle Duncan said. "Do you know what a squire is?"

Steffon nodded. "Father has three, but only one came with us here."

Duncan raised himself up, his eyes finally meeting his sister's gaze. He asked, his voice tentative, hesitant, "Are you well, dearest sister?"

"I am," Rhaelle replied. "I am _always_ well," she added, determinedly.

The look on Rhaelle's face seemed to have discouraged Duncan from asking or saying anything more. He put his hands on Steffon's shoulders, and with a kindly smile, said, "I hope you will enjoy your visit to King's Landing, young Steffon."

_Why don't you like him, Mother? He's nice to me. _

"Thank you," Steffon finally replied, after his mother's hand squeezed his palm, prodding him.

Steffon turned around to watch his uncle walking away, and spotted him being met by a woman in the courtyard. Uncle Duncan took the woman's hands, both of them, with a gentleness that seemed strange in a man who looked so strong. He whispered something into her ear. She had the saddest look on her face, and yet, Steffon thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"Who is that?" He asked his mother, pointing at the woman whose hand was now grazing Uncle Duncan's cheek, tenderly, as if he was a sad child who needed her consoling.

His mother turned to look, and she flinched. Yet she could not take her eyes off the two figures, staring and staring until they started walking away and could not be seen any longer.

"Who is that woman, Mother?" Steffon asked again.

"_Lady _Jenny," his mother finally replied, her eyes now squeezed shut. "Duncan's wife."

"She is the most beautiful woman in the world," Steffon declared, with awe.

"She _would_ be, wouldn't she," his mother muttered under her breath. "How they _love_ the Prince of Dragonflies and his Jenny, all the singers and storytellers spinning their yarns. Such _pure_ love, such _sacrifice_. Everything they gave up for the sake of their one true love; his crown, her freedom to roam as she pleases. That may well be, but what about the price _other_ people had to pay? No one cared about _that_."

Steffon did not understand, and the tone of his mother's voice was frightening him. "Mother?" He called out.

His mother finally turned her attention to him. "You must never say anything to your father about Lady Jenny," she warned him. "And certainly not about her being the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Why not?"

"Just remember that."

Steffon blurted out, "Did Father want to marry her too?"

Mother actually laughed, but it was an unpleasant sound, not at all like her usual laughter. "No, it's not that at all."

"Then why?"

"I will tell you later, when we get home."

"No, tell me _now_!" Steffon insisted. He was tired and cranky. It had been a long, exhausting day in a strange place, his father was nowhere to be seen, and his mother was like a frightening stranger saying and doing things she had never done at home. Even her _laugh_ was different. Home. He wanted to be _home_. And more than anything, he wanted _Mother_ to be Mother again. The sob escaped him.

His mother sighed, beckoning Dalla to come closer. "This boy needs a nap," she said, handing Steffon to his nursemaid without a second glance, without even a hug. She would have hugged him at home, no matter how annoyed she was with him at the time. Fresh tears assailed the boy, and it was Dalla who soothed him, saying in her sing-songy voice, "There, there. Now, now."

* * *

><p>When Steffon woke from his nap, opening his eyes slowly, he saw that he was not in the room he had been given to sleep in Maegor's Holdfast, the room next to his parents' room, the room where Dalla slept in a cot next to his bed. This was <em>their<em> room, Mother's and Father's.

His mother was in the room, talking in a low voice to someone. Not his father. It was a woman's voice replying to his mother. Steffon opened his eyes wider, and saw Aunt Shaera and Mother, sitting around the table, eating, drinking and talking. He spotted a basket filled to the brim with peaches on the table. Steffon _loved loved loved_ peaches, but they were not always easy to come by. Peaches were grown in the Reach, not the Stormlands, Father had told him, when Steffon asked why they could not have peaches every day.

And now here Mother was, with bountiful of peaches on the table, and she was calmly eating a slice of cake and talking with her sister seemingly without a care in the world, without even bothering to wake Steffon up. Mother _knew_ how much he loved peaches. Sulking, Steffon closed his eyes and pretended to sleep again, only to open them again from time to time, spying to see if his mother had finally remembered that she had a son who loved peaches.

_How could you, Mother?_

He could hear the conversation between Mother and Aunt Shaera well enough, without really understanding most of it. They were talking about someone who was not yet with child, after twelve long years of marriage.

"Not even a miscarriage?" Mother asked.

"No, _nothing_. _At all_," Aunt Shaera replied, with emphasis.

"I suppose it does not matter in the slightest," Rhaelle said. "Duncan will not be king now. He is not desperate for an heir." She paused, before continuing, "They seem happy enough, at any rate. Still madly in love, I suppose?"

Shaera hesitated, her eyes watching her sister warily. "Will it make you feel better, if I tell you that they argue and bicker every day, that they cannot stand the sight of each other?"

"Is that the truth?"

Sighing, Shaera said, "No."

"It will not make me feel any better, even if that is the truth."

"Then what will, Rhaelle?" Shaera asked, her hand reaching out to her sister, her eyes glistening with tears.

Quickly changing the subject, Rhaelle said, "_You_ have given Jaehaerys an heir. The succession is secure."

Shaera disagreed. "One son is hardly secure. What if something happens to Aerys?"

"Is he often unwell, like his father?"

"No, he is in very rude health, thank the gods. But still, you never know. Daeron the Good thought the succession was secure. He had an heir he was proud of, one he made his Hand and placed a great deal of trust in. And yet Baelor Breakspear died suddenly in a foolish mishap, and Baelor's own sons died along with Daeron himself in the Great Spring Sickness. Thank the gods Daeron still had other sons and grandsons. But what if Baelor had been the only one?"

"There is still your Rhaella," Rhaelle pointed out.

"They will _never _allow a woman to sit on the Iron Throne. You know all the precedents. The Great Council that made Father king never even considered Uncle Daeron's daughter."

"She was simple-minded, poor Vaella. Your Rhaella is not."

"No, they will consider our brothers Duncan and Daeron before they ever consider Rhaella. And both Duncan and Daeron are unlikely to have heirs of their own. What then? Will a Blackfyre sit on the Iron Throne after all?"

"Daeron … well, Daeron might still marry and father a son," Rhaelle said.

Shaera gave her sister a meaningful look. "That will _never_ happen, and we both know the reason. Let's not pretend otherwise."

Steffon was confused. First, Mother and Aunt Shaera were talking about Daeron whose daughter was not chosen for something, and then about Daeron who was never going to marry. Could you have a child if you were not married?

(Later, back at Storm's End, Steffon would ask Maester Cressen this very question. The maester side-stepped the question about having a child without marrying, and instead wrote down a list of all the different Daerons, past and present. There were more than just two, it turned out. A lot more. Uncle Harbert looked on with pity when he saw Steffon pondering over the list. "Wait until you get to all the different Aegons. That was the bane of my existence during my lessons!")

His mother was speaking again. "That Redwyne girl Daeron was supposed to marry, she was wed to Luthor Tyrell not long ago."

Shaera reddened. "I know. We were invited to the wedding."

"We?"

"The king and queen, of course, but also the Prince of Dragonstone and his wife."

"Did you go?"

"Yes, we all did. Father said we _must_, or the Tyrells and the Redwynes would take it as an insult. And after what happened before … well, the crown could ill afford that."

"Daeron was not invited?"

"No."

There was silence for a long while, as Rhaelle brushed away crumbs of lemon cake from her dress, and Shaera's hand tinkered with a peach, without her mouth actually taking a bite.

"I'm not sorry I did it," Shaera announced suddenly, her voice defiant.

_Did what?_ Steffon wondered. Had she taken the peaches from the kitchen without asking the cook's permission, like Steffon did that one time?

"Looking at Luthor Tyrell up there on the dais, looking all smug and leering and red-faced, thinking with horror, I could have been married to _that_. He looked like he could not _wait_ to put his hand down my dress, when I was seated next to him during the feast celebrating the four betrothals. And I was only eleven at the time!" Shaera exclaimed.

"It was good that Father thought to keep one daughter unbetrothed, for use in rainy days," Rhaelle said. "Be honest, sister," she continued, her voice very hard suddenly. "Even if it was not Luthor Tyrell you were betrothed to, and someone you found less repulsive, you still would have wanted only one man, and no one else."

Shaera sighed, deeply. "It has caused Father much trouble. We both know that, Jaehaerys and I. And when Jaehaerys is king, he will have to deal with it too."

"Would you still have done it, knowing what you know now, knowing all the repercussions?"

"Have you ever asked _Duncan_ that question?"

"No."

"Why not? What _he_ did directly affected your life. What Jaehaerys and I did –"

"I do not care to listen to his excuses and his justifications, his regret and his remorse." Rhaelle repeated the question. "Would you, Shaera?"

"Gods forgive me, but I would. I would elude my guardians and run away with Jaehaerys a thousand times over. I have only ever loved him. I could never love anyone else. Do you understand that?"

"No," Rhaelle said. "How could I?"

"But you liked him! When Ormund was serving as Father's page, and later when he was Duncan's squire, you used to watch him, and make up stories about him. And he used to speak to you. Oh he was too shy to speak to me, but he spoke to you often enough. He made you laugh, I remember that. You used to ride on his shoulders and pretended that he was Balerion the Black Dread."

"I was a child. A little girl. He was in awe of his older sister, and he missed his little brother, but he never had a little sister."

"Was he so very different, when you came to Storm's End?"

"_Everything_ was different. _I_ was different. How could it not be, after what took place?"

"It could have still happened, naturally, in due time, you being betrothed to Ormund, even without … even without the whole business with Duncan and Jenny. Father and Lord Lyonel were fast friends in those days. Lord Lyonel's daughter as the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Father's daughter as the future Lady of Storm's End, that notion would have appealed to them."

"Indeed. But it did not happen that way. Sometimes I think … that is what I resent the most, that it could have been so very different, our betrothal, our marriage. It was a house of misery and bitterness Father sent me to, when he sent me to Storm's End. And I was not the only one miserable; they _all_ were, all the Baratheons. What chance did we _ever_ have for happiness, Ormund and I, with that kind of beginning?"

"It is not too late," Shaera said, plaintively. "We make our own happiness, sweet sister."

"That's easy enough for _you_ to say. I –" Rhaelle gasped. She had seen Steffon's eyes wide open, watching her. She stood up abruptly, walking towards the bed.

"How long have _you_ been awake, my naughty boy?"

"I am _not_ a naughty boy," Steffon said, still sulking.

"Oh? So that was not a tantrum you were about the throw in the hall earlier?"

"Don't tell Father," Steffon whispered. "_Please_? _Please_, Mother? I will not say anything to Father about Lady Jenny, I promise!"

His mother closed her eyes, sighing. "What am I teaching you?" She muttered under her breath. Then, her voice louder, she said, "I will not tell your father, but only if you promise to behave from now on."

"I will," Steffon promised.

Gazing at her son's face, Rhaelle asked, "Did I frighten you, before?

Steffon nodded, tentatively.

"I'm sorry. This place … it does strange things to me."

"But this is your _home_."

"It was. It's not anymore."

Smiling, Steffon said, "That's right. Your home is with me, in Storm's End."

Eyebrow raised, Rhaelle asked, "Only with you?"

"With Father too, of course," Steffon quickly added. Then, leaning into his mother's ear, he whispered, "Can I have a peach?"

His mother laughed. "Of course."

Steffon was happily and busily eating his second peach when there was a knock on the door.

"That will be Aerys and Rhaella," Aunt Shaera said. "Their lesson usually finishes at this time."

A boy and a girl walked in, accompanied by a woman that Aunt Shaera told to wait outside. _Their_ Dalla, it must be, Steffon thought, but this woman was older than Dalla, and she looked scary, like the wizened old witch from the picture books.

Cousin Aerys was taller than Steffon, but then he was two years older, so it was as it should be. Cousin Rhaella was older than Steffon by a year, Mother had told him, but she was slighter, and shorter. They both had hair like Mother, like Aunt Shaera. Hair the color of silver-gold, Mother said, not white, not really, it only looked that way under a certain light.

Even their eyes were the same. They all looked like a family, the four of them. He was the only one different in the room, Steffon realized, his gaze switching from one face to another. His hair, something Steffon had always been proud of – "it's really, really black, not just dark" - suddenly seemed conspicuously out of place.

_I want Father_! Where _was_ his father? Steffon had barely seen his father since they arrived in King's Landing. "Your father has many things to attend to," Mother had told him.

His mother was looking at Steffon meaningfully, her finger pointing at the basket filled with peaches. Steffon took one peach, and offered it to Rhaella. To the lady first, his father had taught him, that was the chivalrous thing to do. Rhaella took the peach, thanking her cousin quietly. She was shy too; somehow that made Steffon feel better.

"Can't _I_ have a peach too?"Aerys asked. "Is it only for my sister?"

Steffon could not decide if Aerys was being sulky, or if he was making a jape. But then Aerys laughed, so Steffon decided it was a jape after all.

"Of course you can," Steffon replied, handing Aerys a peach. "This is your home, you can have as many as you like. Well, _maybe_ not as many as you like, because if you eat too many peaches it will make you sick to your stomach. It happened to me once. Maester Cressen had to make me drink a potion that tasted_ really_, _really_ horrible to make me stop throwing up."

There was a long silence greeting this. Steffon looked down at his hand. Had he talked too much? "Slow down," his mother sometimes said, "you're talking too fast."

"I like you," Aerys finally declared, solemnly, as if he had been examining Steffon, carefully, to see if he would do after all.

"Take Steffon to your playroom," Aunt Shaera told her children. "You can show him all your toys and your books."

As the door was closing, Steffon saw his mother and Aunt Shaera talking again, their heads almost touching, the expression on both their faces grave.

* * *

><p>The playroom was very big, bigger than Steffon's own in Storm's End. There were toys of all sorts, but also many books, the ones with pictures and big, bold words below it, but also the ones with only words, small, cramped words with not enough space between the letters.<p>

"Can you read?" Rhaella asked.

"Yes, I can," Steffon replied, proudly.

Rhaella chose a book – one with pictures and big, bold words, Steffon was relieved to see. "Should we read this one together? It's about a family of rabbits," she said.

"Do rabbits_ have_ family?" Steffon asked. He remembered eating rabbit stew once. The meat was chewy and Steffon did not much care for it. Cats had families; they made kittens. And dogs made puppies, although Steffon liked kittens a lot more than puppies. But _rabbits_?

"Yes," Rhaella replied, "rabbits have families too. See, this is the father rabbit, this is the mother rabbit, and these are their five children. Just like Grandmother and Grandfather, with their five children."

Pointing at the biggest of the baby rabbits, Steffon said, "And this is my uncle Jaehaerys, your father."

Aerys, who had been darting about the room restlessly, rearranging his tin soldiers as his sister was patiently sitting with their little cousin, finally came to sit by them. "No, that's not Father," he said. "That's Uncle Duncan."

"Why is it Uncle Duncan?" Steffon asked.

"Because he's the biggest, and the oldest," Aerys replied.

"No, he's not," Steffon blurted out.

"Of course he is," Aerys said.

Remembering the three uncles he had met, Steffon conceded, "He's the biggest and the tallest, certainly. But he _can't_ be the oldest. If he is, he would be king after Grandfather."

"My father will be king after Grandfather," Aerys announced, with pride. "And I will be king after my father."

"I know," Steffon said, "Mother told me so. So Uncle Duncan can't be the oldest after all. The oldest son inherits, that's what my father said."

"Well, _my _father said –" Aerys began.

"Show Steffon your new wooden swords, Aerys," Rhaella hurriedly said. Turning to Steffon, she said, "He has two, but he will not let me touch either of them."

"They are very special," Aerys said. "They are carved to match the Targaryen ancestral swords, Blackfyre and Dark Sister."

"Is Blackfyre for you, and Dark Sister for your sister?" Steffon asked.

"Why would a girl need a sword?" Aerys scoffed.

"Dark Sister was Queen Visenya's sword," Rhaella said. "_She_ was a girl too."

"She was a fierce queen and she had a dragon," Aerys said." You're only a princess."

Aerys showed Steffon the swords with great ceremony. "The man who carved them is very skilled, my father said."

"They are … they are …" Steffon did not know the right word. Could you call a sword 'beautiful', even a wooden one?

"They are my most prized possessions," Aerys said. "At least until the blacksmith is done forging a _real_ sword for me. That will be even _more_ magnificent."

They sparred, Steffon and Aerys, using the two wooden swords. Aerys was more skillful, but Steffon was quicker on his feet. Or at least he was, until he tripped on a bulge on the carpet and fell down. In a flash, Aerys had his sword on Steffon's throat. "Yield," he commanded. "Do you yield?"

"No. _Never."_

The door opened suddenly, revealing Uncle Daeron with his hands folded over his chest. "I heard such a ruckus. Well, well, what do we have here?" He asked, looking amused.

"We're only playing," Aerys said quickly, holding out his hand to raise Steffon up from the floor. "Show Steffon that move, Uncle Daeron." Turning to Steffon, Aerys said, "He can fight with both hands, at the same time."

"With _two_ swords?" Steffon asked.

Aerys nodded. The boys handed over both swords to Daeron, who proceeded to dazzle them with his skills.

"Uncle Daeron was only eight when he went to battle with Grandfather," Aerys said. "My father and Uncle Duncan went too, of course, but they were older. I wish_ I _could fight a real battle, with a real sword."

"You know your mother does not like hearing that. We should be rejoicing that there is peace in the land once more," Daeron said.

"But _you_ like battles and fighting, uncle. There is nothing else in the world like being wedded to your sword, you said."

Daeron laughed, but he looked uncomfortable. "Where did you hear that?"

Aerys would not say.

And then Dalla came to take Steffon away. "You must wash and change for the feast tonight," she reminded him, when Steffon pleaded to stay a little longer. As he was leaving, Aerys suddenly and abruptly handed him the smaller sword.

"Here, take it," Aerys said. "You can have my Dark Sister."

Steffon was astonished. "Really?"

"Yes. If I had a brother, I would give it to him, but a cousin is almost as good."

Steffon really, really, really wanted the sword, but he hesitated, glancing at Rhaella. What about Rhaella? She was Aerys' sister. Steffon was only a cousin, and one Aerys had just met, at that.

To his relief, Rhaella was smiling, not frowning. "Take it," she told Steffon. "It is not often Aerys is generous with his things. This is one for the history books."

Steffon took the sword, thanking his cousin. After Aerys had bounded away ahead of them, Rhaella whispered to Steffon, "I never wanted the sword. I don't _like_ fighting. But I was annoyed that Aerys kept saying that girls never know what to do with one. _Some_ do. Queen Visenya knew what to do with a sword. She was even better than her brother."

"She was?"

"Once, Queen Visenya and King Aegon - the first king Aegon, that is, not our grandfather, he's the fifth – once they were attacked in the streets of King's Landing by Dornish assassins, and _she_ was the one who saved his life, with her sword."

"Did your maester teach you that?"

No, I read it myself, in a book," Rhaella said.

* * *

><p>His father was waiting by the door when Steffon entered his parents' room, after Dalla had properly scrubbed and cleaned and dressed him, fit for a king's feast. "I gave you a bath just this morning. What have you been doing with your cousins to get so dirty again?" Dalla grumbled.<p>

"We were playing," Steffon said. "Children play, that's what we doooo," he announced, in a sing-songy voice.

Now he rushed to his father's side. His father gazed at him from head to toe, then finally smiled, ruffling Steffon's hair. "You met your cousins, your mother told me."

"I did."

"Do you like them?"

Steffon nodded. "Aerys gave me a present," he volunteered.

"What present?" His mother asked, from across the room.

"A sword," Steffon replied. "It's in my room."

"A sword?!" His mother raised her voice.

"Not a real sword," Steffon said. "A wooden sword, for sparring. It's Dark Sister, only not really Dark Sister." _My_ Dark Sister, Aerys had called it.

"Oh? Queen Visenya's sword?" Father asked.

"Do you know about Queen Visenya, Father?"

"Of course. Queen Visenya, King Aegon and Queen Rhaenys. Together with Orys Baratheon, they made Westeros into a single kingdom. King Aegon was the first king to sit on the throne, the one you saw this morning."

"Where Grandfather was sitting?"

"Yes."

"Someone should have made Grandfather a more comfortable chair to sit on," Steffon said. "Maybe the man who carved Aerys' wooden swords could do it. He is very good, Aerys said."

Ormund laughed. "It is not a chair, Steffon. It is a throne."

"Can't a throne be comfortable to sit on?" Steffon asked, puzzled.

"We will be late," Rhaelle reminded her husband. "And you, curious boy, you can ask your grandfather that question yourself, tonight."

Ormund frowned. "Rhaelle," he said her name, just the one word.

His wife met his gaze without faltering. "What?"

Ormund sighed.

"Oh yes, he _will_ behave. Your son will not bring shame to House Baratheon."

"We must tread carefully."

"You worry too much," Rhaelle said. "Shaera was shocked to see how much hair you have lost. What happened to all that luxurious hair, she wanted to know."

Ormund smiled, ruefully. "I am too young to be turning bald. It runs in the family, it seems."

"I don't remember your father …"

"It skips a generation, supposedly."

Mother and Father were both smiling, but it was over all too quickly, because then they had to hurry to get to the feast in time.

* * *

><p>Father was seated beside Uncle Duncan, the two of them talking earnestly in low voices. Father used to squire for him, Uncle Duncan said. Steffon tried to imagine his father as a squire, helping Uncle Duncan with his cloak and his doublet, handing him his gloves, polishing his sword and his armor, attending him at tourneys and so on and so forth. He could not really imagine it, in truth. His father was <em>Lord Baratheon<em>, he had always been that, in Steffon's eyes. He was Lord Baratheon even before Steffon was born, even before he married Mother.

Lady Jenny walked in and sat beside her husband. Steffon saw his father stiffening, turning his head down, concentrating on his soup. The conversation between Father and Uncle Duncan ceased altogether.

His grandmother was speaking to Steffon. "Your mother told me you celebrated your own nameday very recently."

"My fifth," Steffon said. "And how old are _you_, Grandmother? Are you very old?"

Grandmother laughed heartily. "If you want to win a lady's heart, you must never ask her age," Grandmother said, her eyes twinkling. Her eyes were black, black as night, like her hair. Not blue, like Steffon's eyes. The witch in Steffon's picture books had black hair and black eyes too, but somehow, Grandmother did not look like a witch at all.

"I will remember that," Steffon promised, solemnly.

There were so many dishes to try, so many delicacies to tempt him. Mother even allowed him to take a sip of wine, but not the wine in her own goblet. "This is Dornish wine. It's too strong for a boy." She gave him something else that tasted very sweet. Sickly sweet. Steffon grimaced, not liking the taste at all.

Uncle Daeron noticed. Grinning, he said, "Perhaps Steffon would like the taste of ale better. Shall I give him a sip, Rhaelle?"

Mother rolled her eyes. "Don't you start," she told Uncle Daeron.

That was when Steffon noticed Uncle Duncan staring at them. He was smiling, but he still looked sad. His smile was all wrong, Steffon decided. Mother should teach Uncle Duncan how to smile the right way.

Father was talking to Grandfather, something about levies and taxes. Lady Jenny was listening to Aunt Shaera, while carefully cutting up the meat on her plate into little pieces. Steffon stared and stared, and continued staring. _Lady Jenny_, Mother had said to call her. Why was she not Aunt Jenny?

Suddenly, he felt his legs being kicked under the table.

"What are you staring at?" Aerys whispered. "What is so interesting? Tell me. _Tell me_."

"Nothing," Steffon said, flushing red. He turned to chatter with Rhaella and Aerys. Strange, it felt like he had known them for a long time. What would it be like, to have a brother, or a sister? He would have to share many, many things with this brother or sister - Mother's special smile, to name just one - but perhaps he would not mind so much.

Later, he heard his father's voice calling out his name, but it turned out his father was still talking to Grandfather. Then suddenly, Grandfather _was_ calling for him. "Come here, child."

Steffon looked at his mother, who nodded, but Aunt Shaera was the one who stood up, took Steffon's hand and brought him to Grandfather.

Grandfather asked him many questions, about Storm's End, about his daily routine, about his friends, even about Dalla. Grandfather had a kindly smile and he sounded genuinely interested in Steffon's replies, but Steffon was painfully aware of his father sitting there looking tense and worried, so his answers were all very brief, afraid that he might say something wrong.

After a while, Grandfather asked, "I am not that scary, am I?"

Steffon shook his head. "No," he replied, and then suddenly Mother was by his side, saying that it was time he went to bed.

* * *

><p>His parents argued all the way back to their room. They did not use any names, only <em>he<em>, _she_, _him_ and _her_, so Steffon was not certain who they were arguing about.

"You could talk to him so easily, as if nothing had happened, as if _he_ had done nothing wrong, and yet you could not even look at her. Is it more _her_ fault than his?"

"Of course not. He was the one who broke a betrothal, not her."

"Then?"

"I look at her, and I see where my sister should have been. I see my sister laughing, thriving, happy. And most of all, alive."

"Blame my brother for that."

"I do not see _you_ going out of your way to be friendly to her."

"Why should I? But at least I do not pretend that everything is still just the same, with my father and my brother."

"You have the luxury to be honest; you are their blood after all. I am not."

"Your father never pretended. He showed them _exactly_ how he felt."

"He showed _you_ exactly how he felt too. Would you rather than I am more like my father?"

"No! Of course not. How could you even think that, knowing the way he treated me?"

"Then what?"

Dalla grabbed hold of Steffon's hand, pulling him towards his room. Steffon was about to protest, but Dalla shushed him.

Later in bed, he could not fall asleep, tossing and turning, tossing and turning, over and over again.

"Do you want a song?" Dalla asked.

Steffon shook his head.

"What about a story?"

Steffon shook his head again.

Then he must have fallen asleep after all, because it was the loud thunder that woke him. Dalla was still sleeping soundly. Another thunder, louder this time. Dalla snored. Steffon ran to the door connecting his room with his parents' room. He opened the door.

"Mother," he called out. There was no reply. He could see the bed, even in the dark. He walked towards it. But his mother was not in bed, only his father, brows furrowing, his fists tightly clenching the sheets, but his eyes were squeezed shut.

"Steffon?" His mother's voice, calling out for him. She was sitting on a chair facing the bed, watching Father, as if standing guard.

Steffon went to her, sat on his mother's lap. "Is Father awake?" He whispered.

"No, he's sleeping."

"It was loud, the thunder," Steffon said, after a while.

"Dalla never woke?"

"She snores."

Mother smiled. "You are old enough to sleep on your own now. We will try that when we return to Storm's End."

"Did _you_ have a Dalla, when you were a little girl?"

"I did. Her name was Mariya."

'Did she come with you, when you went to Storm's End?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't let her."

"They?"

"I pleaded and pleaded, but they said no."

"Who, Mother? Who said no?"

Sighing, she said, "No one. It doesn't matter now. It was a long time ago."

"Mother?"

"Yes?"

"Are you angry with Father? Did he do something wrong?"

"I am afraid for him."

"Why?"

"Because you can only pretend not to hate for so long, before –"

"Before?"

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When her eyes finally opened, she had that special smile for Steffon. "Oh, don't listen to me. I'm just an old woman rambling about nonsense."

"You are not old," Steffon protested.

"Oh? And yet you think Lady Jenny is more beautiful than me," his mother whispered into Steffon's ear.

"I never said _that_!"

"You said she's the most beautiful woman in the world." This, said in a whisper too.

"Yes, but … but … I don't mean _you_, Mother. You're different."

"Different? Is that a praise, or an insult?"

"You're special."

"I am, am I?"

"You're my mother."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: and who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?**

"Take care that your son does not grow to be more dragon than stag, brother."

"I amnota dragon, or a stag. I'm a _boy," _Steffon protested.

"My son will grow to be his own man."

"Must a stag bow to the dragon, always?" challenged Harbert. "Our lord father did not believe so."

For days and days after his return from King's Landing, Steffon delighted in regaling everyone in Storm's End with various tales of his Targaryen relations. It seemed almost miraculous to a boy who previously had known '_family_' to consist only of his mother, his father, and his uncle Harbert, to suddenly be surrounded by various uncles, aunts and cousins; not to mention a grandmother and a grandfather who were flesh and blood and living, not merely stories and remembrances sketched out by the sons they had left behind. (For how could memory - and somebody else's memory at that - ever hoped to compete with the real thing, in the eyes of a child?)

Uncle Harbert, however, was noticeably less than eager to hear Steffon's myriad tales. He pretended not to hear, when the boy prattled on about this uncle or that cousin. He would claim that an urgent task was awaiting him, when Steffon endeavored to query him about how well he had known Uncle Daeron. (Uncle Daeron had mentioned being in the lists with Uncle Harbert at various tourneys over the years, and had asked to be remembered to Steffon's uncle from the Baratheon side.) He even went so far as to walk away, abruptly, when Steffon started describing his Targaryen grandfather, sitting regally on the Iron Throne.

It all came to a head during supper, one night, when Uncle Harbert had been drinking heavily, downing one goblet of wine after another, sitting silent and tight-lipped while the conversation went on around him.

"Take care that your son does not grow to be more dragon than stag, brother," Harbert finally spoke, his voice dangerously low, his eyes scrutinizing his brother's face, interrupting Steffon's long recitation of all the food they had been served during the feast in King's Landing. (The spun sugar treats, shaped to imitate the dragon skulls hanging on the walls of the throne room, had particularly delighted Steffon. "I ate _three_ dragons!" Steffon declared, emphasizing the number with his waving fingers.)

"My son will grow to be his own man," Ormund replied, returning his brother's gaze with a sharp glance of his own.

"I am not a dragon, or a stag. I'm a _boy_," Steffon protested.

Ormund laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh. A laugh to deflect the tension palpable in the room, rather than one of true merriment.

Addressing his nephew, Harbert said, "You will not be a boy forever, lad. It is time you learn that the dragons are too high and mighty for the likes of us. Common stags are never good enough for those _glorious_ and _special_ creatures." Turning to his brother, Harbert continued, "Even our elder sister was not good enough for them, glorious and awe-inspiring as she had always been in our eyes."

Her voice soft, but still sounding very determined, Rhaelle reminded her good-brother, "_This_ Targaryen married a Baratheon."

"Because you _had_ to," Harbert scoffed. "If you had been given the chance to get out of the betrothal, you would have done so, like all your other siblings with their trails of broken betrothals. But sadly for you, good-sister, our lord father had learned his lesson by then. He knew better than to put his faith and his trust on Targaryen's promise, on Targaryen's word of _honor."_

His face red, Ormund declared, through gritted teeth and clenched jaw, "That is the Lady of Storm's End you are addressing. A princess of the blood. My lady wife. Your good-sister. Apologize, now."

"Must a stag bow to a dragon, always?" challenged Harbert. "Our lord father did not believe so."

"Our lord father was the reason we are in this mess in the first place," Ormund snapped. "If King Aegon had been a different kind of king, had been altogether a more ruthless man, House Baratheon could have been wiped out of existence after Father's failed rebellion._ Death_ is the punishment for treason. Have you forgotten that? Our heads stuck on pikes, decorating the Red Keep, is that your wish?"

Harbert set down his wine goblet on the table with a loud thud. "Father's loyalty and leal service to King Aegon had _never_ been in doubt before Prince Duncan dishonored our sister!"

"Even so, a rebellion is still a rebellion," Ormund countered. "There is a price to be paid, for everything. And we have been paying it for years. We are still paying it now, all of us, your good-sister included."

"Father was _twice_ the man you could ever hope to be, brother," Harbert proclaimed.

It happened so fast; Steffon's father standing up, his hand reaching out to slap Uncle Harbert's cheek. Steffon was too shocked to make a sound. For a moment, Uncle Harbert looked as if he might retaliate, his fist clenched tight, his face flushed red, but it was Steffon's mother who put herself between the two Baratheon brothers.

"What would your lady mother think, if she could see you now?" Rhaelle asked. "How much grief would this have caused her, to see her sons coming to blows, to see the boys she raised so lovingly so at odds with each other?"

Uncle Harbert dropped his raised fist, opened his mouth as if he was preparing to speak, but then he walked out of the room abruptly, before any word could come out from his mouth.

Mother's hand was on Father's shoulder. "Ormund," she said, just the one word, and nothing else.

"Take Steffon to his room," Father said, not meeting Mother's eyes.

When Mother hesitated, looking as if she was unwilling to leave Father alone, Father said, "Rhaelle. Please."

Steffon was the only one still sitting down, staring at his plate, not daring to look up in case the tears pooling in his eyes would fall down his cheeks. He had never seen Father so angry before. He had seen Uncle Harbert losing his temper quite a few times, true, but always with other people, never with _Father_. And he had never heard Uncle Harbert talking to Mother in that sneering, unpleasant voice before.

Mother held out her hand, and Steffon reached for it wordlessly. They walked out of the room quietly, Steffon holding on tightly to his mother's hand. He glanced back, once, just the once, to see his father sitting down heavily, his head in his hands.

Back in his room, Mother handed Steffon to Dalla, telling her in a distracted voice, "Put him to bed, quickly. He has had too much excitement tonight."

Mother kissed Steffon on both cheeks, and she was about to turn and leave the room, when Steffon tugged at her hair, beckoning her closer, whispering, "Is Uncle Harbert angry because I was talking too much about my other uncles? I talked about _him_ to Uncle Daeron, and to Grandfather. Grandfather said he used to bounce Uncle Harbert on his knees when Uncle Harbert was a babe. But Uncle Harbert did not want to hear anything about _that_, when I tried to tell him. I haven't forgotten about him, just because I have met those _other _uncles."

Mother sighed, one hand busy smoothing Steffon's hair, the other clenching the sheet. "It is not your fault, Steffon."

"Then whose fault is it?"

"The gods, probably," Mother muttered, quietly, under her breath, but Steffon heard her nonetheless. "Perhaps it is better not to mention your trip to King's Landing, when Uncle Harbert is around," Mother continued, in her normal voice this time.

Steffon nodded. He would have been willing to say anything – or _not_ say anything, in this case – to avoid seeing Father and Uncle Harbert acting the way they did tonight.

* * *

><p>His father and Uncle Harbert were both absent at breakfast the next morning. "Lord Ormund rode for Blackhaven not long after dawn, Your Grace," Maester Cressen told Steffon's mother, when he was summoned.<p>

"_My lady_, Maester. Here, in this castle, I am the Lady of Storm's End, not a princess of House Targaryen." After a pause, Rhaelle asked, "Did Ser Harbert ride out with him?"

"No, my lady. Lord Ormund took only a few household knights and men-at-arms with him. Ser Harbert is in the training yard. Do you wish to summon him, my lady?"

"No," Rhaelle swiftly replied. "I will leave him to his tasks. And you too, Maester."

Cressen took the hint and quickly departed.

Recalling his mother's words the night before, Steffon asked, "What was Father's lady mother like? Was she like you, Mother?"

Steffon had been told how his Baratheon grandmother and grandfather died. "My mother caught a fever, and my father would not leave her side throughout her illness. They died within three days of one another," Steffon's father had told him.

He had been told that Lord Lyonel and Lady Shireen were cousins, that they had known each other all their lives, having been born only seven days apart. His father and his uncle Harbert had spoken of their lady mother often, more often that they spoke of their lord father, certainly; but before last night, Steffon could not remember hearing his mother ever talking about her good-mother.

"She was not like me at all, Lady Shireen. She always had a smile on her face, even when she was angry, or even when she was sad. _Especially_ when she was angry, in truth," Rhaelle replied.

"Was she fond of you?"

"I don't know. She was not an easy woman to read, or to know, in truth. She was never unkind to me. She never had a sharp word to say to me, and she tried to protect me as best she could, but I do not know if that was due to fondness, or because she thought it was her duty. Either way, I was grateful to her, but I could not claim that I knew her at all, or that she ever truly knew me in return."

"She protected you? From what?" Steffon asked.

Ignoring Steffon's question, Rhaelle said instead, "She loved her children, of that I am certain. She loved her husband, and was beloved by him in return. Their marriage reminded me of my own mother and father, and _their_ marriage. Strange, to think that Ormund and I came from these people, from these marriages. And yet –" here she broke abruptly, aware of having said too much, but she was relieved to find that her son was no longer paying attention to her words, too busy arranging the pieces of bread on his plate to resemble a dragon skull.

Later that morning, when Steffon was playing monsters and maidens with Dalla's two youngest children, Alla and Allard, he caught a glimpse of his mother and Uncle Harbert, standing in the garden, talking quietly with solemn expressions on both their faces. (Alla was the only girl, so she _should_ have been the maiden, but she was the oldest and the biggest of the three children, and always insisted that _she_ had to be the monster doing the chasing, every time they played the game.)

Hiding from Alla behind an overgrown bush, Steffon overheard scraps of conversation between his mother and his uncle.

Uncle Harbert was apologizing to Steffon's mother. Why he had not done this last night, when Steffon's father had told him to do so, was a mystery to the boy. _Father would not have slapped you, if you said you were sorry, Uncle. _

"Do you hate them still?" Rhaelle asked. Then, amending her question, she asked, "Do you hate _us_ still?"

"I never hated _you_. You were an innocent, as much a pawn as my sister had been. How could I hate you? What kind of monster would that make me?"

"Yet when you see me being the Lady of Storm's End, this woman with Targaryen blood flowing in her, sitting where your lady mother used to sit -"

"You have been the Lady of Storm's End these past six years, since the day you recited your wedding vows, since the day my brother draped that Baratheon cloak over your shoulders. I have never begrudged you that, not for a moment, despite my rash and harsh words last night. It is not about that at all."

"Then what is it really about?"

Harbert's reply was jumbled and disorderly, full of pauses and incomplete phrases. "Steffon … the thought of Steffon so _amazed_ to be surrounded by all those happy and flourishing Targaryens, when we, all of us - even _you_, Rhaelle - when we had been … when we have been so … for so long … how could _they_ live so freely, so happily, with such easy conscience, as if _nothing_ had happened?"

Her hand grazing her good-brother's palm, Rhaelle said, "I do know how you feel, for I feel it too, in my bones. But things are not always what they seem, Harbert. They have their own sorrow." She paused, before adding, carefully, "And your brother has his own sorrow."

Sighing heavily, Harbert said, "I did not mean it, truly, what I said about Ormund being less of a man than our father. But he _infuriated_ me so, when he spoke of our dead father in that manner."

"You might not have meant it, but he believed it nonetheless."

"Oh surely he knows his own brother better than that! Surely he knows how prone I am to uttering rash words, when I am in my cups," Harbert protested.

"The trouble is, he half-believes it about himself. And his own brother saying it out loud only confirms it for him."

Harbert shook his head violently. "No, you are _wrong_, good-sister. You could not be more wrong. Ormund has always been convinced that our father behaved in a reckless manner when he declared himself the Storm King, that Father had put pride before sound judgment, had endangered the safety of his family and gambled with the fate of House Baratheon for the sake of his fury. Ormund would have done things differently in the same situation, with caution and restraint foremost in his mind, and he would have been convinced that _his _way - not _Father's_ way - was the right way. Why would he think of himself as being less of a man than our lord father, if he believes that Father had been in the wrong?"

"Because a son might disagree with his father's actions, might even go so far as to doubt the father's sound judgment, while still caring deeply – perhaps too much – about what his father thought of him, while still fearing that his father had found him wanting, a grave disappointment as a son," Rhaelle pointed out.


End file.
